


Just A Little Late

by DawnsEternalLight



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bruce is trying, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, Injury, Light Angst, They love each other k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 13:03:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14081505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnsEternalLight/pseuds/DawnsEternalLight
Summary: Father always comes. Even if he's a little late sometimes.





	1. Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Written in two parts for prompts on Tumblr

Damian wanted to go home. He wanted to be snug in a chair in the library, reading one of the silly books Grayson wouldn’t shut up about. He wanted Titus to bother him, butting his head against his leg and getting little slobber marks all over his pants. He wanted to look up and see Father walk in on his own search for books, or be interrupted by Pennyworth needing his help with anything.

He swung his blade at Grandfather once more and tried to decide if it was worth the second it would take to swat the sweat from his brow, or if even that tiny bit of relief would be his downfall. Metal clashed against metal, sending sparks dancing across the dry desert, threatening flame if there was anything to burn.

Damian wanted to go home. He wanted the heat off his back, the stifling sweat of his uniform peeled away and replaced with soft pants and one of Grayson’s old hoodies that breathed as he moved. He wanted cool air that didn’t burn his lungs and the dulling safe light of fluorescents.

Damian could not let Grandfather win. He could not leave Father to beat Grandfather on his own. Father did not even know where to look. Would not even listen to Damian when he’d told him to look at the patterns. They screamed the obvious. Just as his own signals were screaming out to Father.

Grandfather was speaking of the world. Of controlling humanity to save it. To destroy it. To make the world a better place by holding it back.

Damian’s sword screamed against Grandfather’s, metal slipping up as strength beat strength. Damian ducked for the world. No. He ducked for Father and Grayson and Pennyworth. For Todd and Cain and Drake. For the family that had become his. For the right to make their world a better safer place. His sword darted out and bit into Grandfather’s shoulder, and the two separated again.

He couldn’t keep this up for long. Damian knew that. He had known it going into the fight. His job was to lead Father here. To the heart of Grandfather’s plans. To the place his father refused to open his eyes and see.

“All the while we’ve been fighting, I’ve been screaming.” Damian told Grandfather. His jump pack’s black box. The signals in the earth. Father would not look for patterns, but Father would look for Damian.

He would search for the ripples Damian made as he pushed past all of Father’s ways. He would hunt for the boy he still sometimes looked at with a lost gaze. A faraway look that Damian had once mistaken for rejection, but had slowly realized was memory of a time before his birth. Father would look for him and Damian would keep screaming as long as he could to be a beacon to the next step.

Grandfather’s smile was snide. A wicked jaggad gap that seemed to drag Damian’s glittering hope inside to smother in darkness. He spoke again of control. Of how he held the world in his grasp. Of the blackout surrounding them. His words slithered their way into Damian’s chest sparking icy fear that Father would not hear. Father would not see. Father would not find Damian’s cry.

He surged forward with another attack to beat back the words and his Grandfather, slicing at his leg. The blow hit, and then Damian was seeing stars, a foot connecting with his stomach, shoving the air from his lungs. The balance from his legs. He stumbled back and fell to a knee.

Damian wanted Father here. Wanted him to come swooping in from above, batarang clashing with Grandfather’s sword a fury of black and kevlar. Of sweat and righteousness. Of victory and sudden worry turned towards him. Damian wanted to be scooped into arms that told him he’d done wrong to go alone. That he’d been right. That they could go home.

Grandfather’s blade sliced his uniform open, cut into skin, and made Damian bleed hot like the sun beating down on him. He gasped, hand going to put pressure on the wound.

“You are beaten, Grandson.”

Damian could be defiant a little longer. He could lash out with his words. Grandfather could not win because he could not control everything. He could not grasp every grain of sand in the world and not expect a few to slip between the cracks.  

Father would be here soon. He did not believe Grandfather’s words. Could not believe that Father would not find him. Father would always find him. Even if he were a little late. His vision was going black, the wound deep, the blood already staining his gloves and the dirt, turning it a redder dust than Mars.

Damian had gotten used to Father being late. He was not, of course, late all the time. But he was late often enough that Damian had taken it in stride. He had been late to loving Damian. And excusable thing if one looked at how Damian had acted. He still wondered at how Richard had ever had patience with him.

He had been late to save them from Hurt, coming only after Richard had been shot in the head. Damian understood, it was hard coming back from being lost in time. And he had saved Richard. At the time, that had been all that mattered.

He had been only moments away from reaching Damian before he’d died. A few seconds less fighting with Mother and maybe–but Damian could not blame him. He had come to help after all. Father could not do it without him. Besides, Damian would not trade the warmth of his hug-of the knowledge that Father wanted him for anything.

Father had been late in a hundred little ways. On a stumble down the stairs, a shot of fear gas in Damian’s face, stopping him from heading off on this mission. And now, as Grandfather caught Damian’s body as it fell, Father was just a little late to save him.

Still, as gruff hands hauled him over a shoulder and Damian’s stomach burned with pain, he did not mind so much if Father were a little late. Late at least meant that Father would be there.


	2. Waking

Damian woke to hands on his wrists. Gloved fingers fumbled with something scratchy and tight holding them behind him. His head hurt. His brain felt slow and stupid. The dim light of wherever he was made his eyes feel like they were throbbing. No maybe not his eyes, his head. 

The fingers swore. Or the voice and body connected to the fingers swore. Damian smelled rubber and kevlar. Sharp metallic sweat. A dusting of burnt desert covered it, like the powdered sugar Pennyworth dusted lemon cookies with. 

It caught in Damian’s nose and clogged his throat to make him cough.The cough felt ragged. His mouth was dry and cottoned, sticky and gross. Damian groaned, the dust tickling his throat again. 

“Hush now.” the voice rumbled, warm as the desert sun Damian remembered seeping through his uniform, “Give me a second.” 

There was something cool at his wrists, and Damian wondered at that. Hadn’t he been wearing gloves? Pressure broke and his arms felt loose, his shoulders happy for relief. The cool was gone now, and Damian was too hot without the tiny bit of relief. Why was he so hot? And shaky? He rolled forward and into a lap dusty and dirty and matted with something red. His stomach burned with pain, some kind of fabric pulling tight against the heat and pain. Damian curled in on himself as hands found his shoulders and tried to pull him up.

“No.” he mumbled, voice thick, “Don’t.” 

His arms wrapped around his middle like he was trying to hold everything in, why did it hurt again? The memory of a blade sharp and bright with the sun glancing off it made Damian gasp. Or maybe it was the hands winning against his fight, and the wound pulling open again. He was so hot. And his head hurt. He just wanted to sleep, to…   
“Damian. Look at me, son.” 

Father’s voice. Damian recognized it at last, and tension flowed out of him he hadn’t realized was there. He looked up, hands still clutching at his sides, arms protecting his wound. He didn’t see Father through lenses, so his mask must have been removed. By Father? Grandfather? Where was Ra’s? Did it matter?

A hand brushed at the side of his face, thumb on his cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong.” 

Father’s cowl was pulled back, his blue eyes examining Damian with worry. One hand was on his back, steadying him as he sat. The other still on his face, cupping his cheek. 

“You came.” Damian said, his voice a little wonderstruck, completely ignoring Father’s question. It should be obvious what was wrong. That was not what was important right now.

He had not doubted Father’s coming. Not while he fought with Grandfather or as he’d left to find him. Not even when he’d blacked out. Father always came. 

“You are late.” he added, “I expected you in the desert, not here.” 

The thought came to him then to look around, and find out where here was. His head was still pounding, and the dim light in the room when he turned away from Father’s dark form sent a sharp pain through his eyes. It was one of Grandfather’s hideouts, that was all Damian really cared to take in. The room was small, empty beyond Father and he. 

“I’m sorry.” the thumb brushed his cheek before Father removed his hand. “I didn’t mean to be late.” 

“You came. That is what matters.” And as Damian said it all he wanted was for Father to hold him again. 

The absence of his hand felt like too much. Everything felt like too much. He was too hot. His stomach hurt, more than just the pain of the wound, though that too felt worse than it had when he’d received it. His insides were churning and his head pounded against his eyeballs. He didn’t want to think or speak or do anything but curl up and sleep. 

He let himself fall forward, away from Father’s balancing hand and into him. Back against the kevlar that felt cool to his burning forehead. Back against the chest that was so large Damian could easily curl against it. 

He felt Father scoop him up with strong arms, then the air moved as he stood making the burnt smell of the desert mixed with blood, sweat, and Father surround Damian. He pressed his face against his father’s chest and let his eyes flutter closed. He was safe. Father had come. It did not matter where Grandfather was or what had happened between the desert and now. What did was that Father was here, Father had come for Damian. 

He did not sleep soundly. Bumps and movement shook his injury, jarring his body with unexpected pain. His head was a flood of worry. Of regret. Of guilt. Jet engines seemed to have taken root in his skull shaking thoughts and pain and fog.

Once he woke in Father’s arms again. He shook, his body hot and cold. His head hurt too much to open his eyes beyond a sliver. He was pressed now against a sweatshirt, still black. Always black. Damian would have to buy Father something in a different color. Maybe a tie with a pop of color. Green or orange. 

It was a prick against his arm that woke him next and made him wrinkle his nose. Soft voices stilled above him for a few moments before they started again. Listing numbers. Temperature. The fire running along his wound had lessened some. Damian let the lullaby of hushed words put him back to sleep. 

At some point pain and the weight of exhaustion didn't feel so heavy they pressed him into the bed anymore, and he stirred. He let his eyes open one at a time and when the light didn't feel like it was piercing the back of his skull he kept them open. His stomach felt tight and he was still tired but he didn't feel as sick anymore. His mind felt clearer too, and the sheets covering him were light and comfortable and not stifling. 

Someone beside him mumbled in their sleep and Damian shifted to see them, the cot squeaking as he moved. The bandages at his middle pulled a little and he had to stop to breathe, eyes squeezing shut again against forgotten pain. A hand pressed against his forehead. 

“Damian?” 

He opened his eyes to find Father looking at him with worry again, bags hung under his eyes, and his face was speckeled with at least a days worth of unshaven stubble. Guilt speared the pain, this was the second time he’d made Father worried over him because he’d wanted to help.

“You’re fever’s down.” Father said, pulling his hand away, “How’s the pain?” 

Damian swallowed, his mouth like dust, “Manageable.” 

“Hrn.” Father turned from him and took a bottle of water off a stand, cracking the lid off before turning back, “You’re probably thirsty.” he said, and helped Damian sit up enough to drink. Pills were pressed into his hand and he took those, downing almost half the water before Father let him lay back against the pillows again. 

“Your Grandfather’s plans have been ruined.” Father said, sitting back, “I followed your signal to his hideout. Unfortunately he got away again.” 

Damian remembered the blood on Father’s uniform, and he thought better of trying to sit up to look at Father but did his best to examine him from where he was. “Were you hurt?” he asked, even as his eyes caught on bandages peeking out from under a shirtsleeve.

“Not nearly as bad as you.” Father’s hand found Damian’s hair, brushing dark strands from his eyes. “Mine didn’t get infected either.” his voice was soft and sad. 

Damian wanted to lean into Father’s touch, let his eyes close again and allow the gentle massage of fingers through his hair to ease him back asleep. But Father had gotten hurt. That had not been in the plan. Not much of what had happened had. 

“I’m sorry.” Damian said. 

The hand in his hair stilled. 

“I was not able to hold out against Grandfather long enough for you to come.” Damian continued, his face heating up. His eyes were not watering. He would not let them. “I could not assist you with the fight with Grandfather and--”

“Damian.”

He blinked up at his father, his vision blurred by held back tears. 

“No one expected you to fight Ra’s, let alone hold out long against him.” Father said, “I should be apologizing.” 

“I had to.” Damian said. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” 

“You weren’t listening.”

Father’s hand found his, thumb rubbing over his knuckles, “I know.” he said again, “I’m sorry.” 

“I--” But Damian did not know what to say. Did not know how to say: ‘I am your Robin. Don’t apologize because I did what I needed to do.’ Father would not listen to those words, just as he had not listened to Damian’s discovery of Grandfather’s plans.

“I knew you would follow.” he said, instead, explaining his actions. “You always find me when I’ve done something against your wishes.” 

Father smiled softly at him, “Of course I do, Damian. That’s my job as your dad.” 

Damian felt a blush creep over his cheeks. Of course. 

“I’m sorry I put you in a position where you thought you had to make me follow.” Father continued, “I’ll try to be a better listener.”

“And I will attempt to be more persuasive before leaving.”

The pills Father had given him were starting to drag Damian’s eyes down again, as was Father’s gentle rubbing of his thumb against Damian’s knuckles. 

“Get some sleep, son.” Father said. 

Damian nodded, “I will have to remind you of your promise when I wake up.” he yawned, “Grayson says we are too much alike and forget to communicate.” 

“He does, does he?” Father murmured, “I’ll have to remind him of all those times when he was Robin and bad at listening.”

Damian turned his hand in his father's, tangling their fingers together, “Do not forget to remind him of all the times he still does not listen.” he said, words slow as he let his eyes slip shut. 

“Of course not.” Father’s voice was close to his ear, lips brushing against his forehead, “We will remind him together.”


End file.
